The Stain of Dragons
by Zaedah
Summary: Defeating the dragon grants only a shiny uniform and a paper thin sword; inadequate weaponry for the foes they’re slaying.


A moment within the first few episodes... Peter's first attempt at departure.

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**The Stain of Dragons**

If ever a moon can strike an ominous chord, tonight's is plucking every string; every bit a lyrical prophesy and in no way fortunate. The swollen rock mass is hanging low and presents such a violent orange, it appears bruised. From a hotel widow, he spares a glance to the celestial body as he dresses, fingers sluggish despite the haste. A momentary reluctance stalls his movement as he considers the task before him, but he shakes it off.

They'd have to find another translator who can speak 'quack.'

The backpack, despite holding all of his current possessions, is rather light. It needs to be where he's headed. Back to the sane world of car bombing religious fanatics and weapons brokers on street corners. Back to his life, the one that includes no family obligations and mad scientist experiments gone wonky. Back to facing death and making money and anything else that doesn't hinge on his babysitting skills.

She won't understand, this woman so bound to duty like some anal boy scout who needs merit badges to breathe. A good soldier in the fight against crime and immorality, she reminds him of that commercial marine fighting across the moat and up the mountain to slay the dragon. And that's two analogies that give the blonde female agent a macho counterpart and he wonders why his brain made that connection. Though it might explain why, contrary to his typical testosterone reaction to a pretty face, he isn't sexually interested.

Defeating the dragon grants only a shiny uniform and a paper thin sword; inadequate weaponry for the foes they're slaying.

To the everlasting regret of Olivia's former lover, she can tolerate no grey areas. This, of course, being the very shade in which his world was colored, and decidedly outside the lines at that. Still, she's a quick eye and when the flight impulse decked him last night, she recognized something, some little twitch that made her ask. Are you okay? Sure, he told her. A newborn being eligible for the senior discount is part of his regularly scheduled day. He'd spent the better part of forty minutes trying to scrub the 'agency' stain from his skin, until the water ran cold and his flesh was raw. There had to be a way to slip out from under the prickly carpet they'd laid upon this little group.

The vacuum of the US government might suck him back in, but they'd have to catch him first.

The last button down shirt is stuffed into the top of the beat up bag when the door opens to reveal a set of unfortunately lovely eyes taking in the scene. Locking the door had seemed pointless; he knew if the single minded Dunham was forced to pick the lock, it would only delay the discussion she'd demand. Lord knows she might just kick the door in. Under her scrutiny, his expression is shame itself for all of 15 seconds before he reins it in. Seeing the disappointed glare only raises his indignation. When had he agreed to serve a country he'd avoided for years? But damn, those eyes are staring the word traitor into his forehead.

"You can't be surprised." Always on the defensive, that's the Bishop way.

Stepping closer and looking quite prepared to fire a few rounds into the bag, Olivia Dunham plucks a frayed strap between her fingers.

"And I suppose you were planning to stop by the lab first? To explain." Whatever shock she'd nursed evaporates with the dawn of her scowl and the chances of leaving without bruises grows slim.

"It's time. I'm done." What else can he say? The tiny metal zippers are pulled tight on the pack, cementing the conclusion of this almost hallucinogenic portion of his life. "Look, I got you my father. He's as manageable as he's gonna get…" For most people, the severity of the shrug would signal 'conversation over,' but he's learning that she isn't concerned with signs.

The bag is tugged from his grasp and unceremoniously dropped to the floor. And he's concerned because the poor thing only needs one more good hit to disintegrate.

"He needs you."

The thought is chilling, which doesn't aid her argument. "He's never needed me." He moves to the open closet, yanking a jacket from its wire hanger. "And I don't need him."

"You were the only one he wanted to see in the institution. Remember that?"

_No_, he thinks. _But I remember him trying to dislodge my eye from my skull that day._ The deep breath rattles in his lungs and echoes in the room. No way on earth should he feel compelled to explain himself but her assumptions are drawing a bucketful of fury from his well.

"Agent Dunham, when I was a kid, he didn't want to see me when I stood right in front of him. I couldn't beg for five minutes of his time back then. So don't ask me for more of mine."

She seems surprised that he's given away something personal, but raised eyebrows descend quickly and her face fights for an expression equal parts sympathetic and removed. "It can be different this time. You might find that Walter…"

"Does the shrink voice actually work on suspects?" He runs a hand over his still damp hair before dropping his arm at his side with a sigh. "Loosen up that ponytail for a minute so you can hear me."

"Excuse me?" A female's hands jumping to hips is, in the civilized world, a fine warning sign. But he's too worked up now to care.

"I can't reconnect with what was never there. I don't know him. I don't _want_ to know him." His voice has gotten awfully loud for the small space and the seasoned agent's posture leans away just a fraction.

"But you stayed this long…" Though strong as a crow bar in the field, the agent dissolved into a distraught eight year old before his eyes. She was making this personal but his existence revolves around comfortable, clinical distances.

"I stayed as long as my sanity could manage. But this isn't my life." There's no future in being a government lab rat or human shield. And he's sure he'll experience both if he doesn't get out.

Apparently she's commandeered the huff of that eight year old as well. "No, your life is one big nomadic scam."

His hand rubs a chin two days past the last shave and realizes that while she doesn't say much, Olivia makes the most of verbal compaction.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Moving to retrieve the fallen bag, he finds a chunky heeled shoe has planted itself on the tattered strap, making it difficult to take the pack without physically removing her. And only one of them has a gun, so his odds are questionable. Straightening, he considers leaving the bag behind; wouldn't be the first time he's dodged a hostile environment empty-handed.

And then that light of realization, a cousin to the one she must have had last night, spreads across her face and smugness arrives with it. Damn, he's about to go crystal.

"I see it now." God, her arrogance is almost as bad as her petulance. Her smirk is as close to a smile as he's witnessed and it's not especially becoming.

Arms crossing over his chest, he tries to deflect whatever gaze she's using to peer through him. "See what?"

And the pacing starts, the kind that accompanies great deductions. "You're not unsettled by the current arrangement. That's just the problem, isn't it?" Her legs stop in the inconvenient latitude of directly before him and he curses himself for not grabbing the backpack when she'd stepped away.

How had John Scott survived bedding this porcupine of a woman?

"You're getting used to being here. Working with us. Having a purpose. Even if it's a borrowed one. And that scares you."

Despite his best effort, his mouth drops open for a moment as he backs away from the jabbing finger. For all the protest his mind is sending, complete with picket lines, a tiny part knows she's right. But the larger part understands it's far more than fear of settling that put his departure on tonight's itinerary. They share genes and the possibilities aren't lost on him. Taking a deep breath, he does the one thing he's been avoiding since she entered the room; he meets her gaze and doggedly holds it.

"No, ninety year old babies scare me. The extent of Walter's deviant science scares me. I don't want to get comfortable with this life, because the minute it stops bothering me that sub-humans are under every rock, I'll be just like him."

Target hit, but not obliterated and her fortitude is one more thing he'll leave this place disliking about her.

"Then stay and fight against those things. So they can't scare anyone else." Her psychiatrist's voice slides artfully into the soothing tones of genuine empathy while his only hardens.

"Do you even know what we're fighting? I don't. Massive Dynamic? The government? My father and others like him?" He bends down and snatches up the bag, slinging it on his shoulder. "I didn't pick this fight and I don't particularly like my odds."

The door, still open from her entry, is almost within reach when she calls to his departing back;

"Maybe the fight picked you."

A hand on the door frame steadies him as he orders his brain not to consider her words. But the problem with a brilliant mind is controlling its rebellious tendencies. Head hung, he hears her shoes skim the carpet on her approach and while she clearly isn't the touchy-feely type, her hand hesitantly touches his forearm.

"I didn't chose this either. But I have no choice than to stay and fight. And my odds would be better if you did the same." He doesn't need to see her face to know it's softer now, every bit as feminine as the voice telling him, "Stay."

Damn, so much for no sexual interest.

With that, the woman reverts to a more familiar brusque professionalism as she brushes past him, moving down the hall with a harsh and purposeful stride. A porcupine with model-length legs. The pack weighs heavily on his body and he drops it by the door, which he closes.

From the inside.


End file.
